


What's Past is Past

by dancingmanatee



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, One Shot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-17
Updated: 2010-03-17
Packaged: 2017-10-08 01:35:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancingmanatee/pseuds/dancingmanatee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Teagan tries to find comfort with the Maker, but Leliana's stories find him instead.</p><p><i>"But does it really matter what I was? What's past is past." -Leliana</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	What's Past is Past

Connor was alive. Isolde was alive. Even Eamon was alive -- although still comatose.

Teagan was grateful for their safety, but after so many fathers, mothers, siblings, and friends had perished, it seemed cruel that fortune had spared his family. Especially when it was their actions had been the root of the entire fiasco. Now here, in the castle's Chantry, he could finally take some comfort in the new mission set for him – to rebuild Redcliffe rather than to protect it.

When night fell and undead rained down from the castle, children – children – prayed to the Maker to let them see the morning light. It was from their words that Teagan questioned his birthright: how could he, even as a lowly bann, protect these people? Then the Wardens did what he could not and saved them all. Now, the people no longer prayed to the Maker for life, but renewal and prosperity, and those were things he had utmost confidence he could deliver.

“We're leaving at first light, my Lord. I should see you soon and good luck with the rebuilding while I'm away.”

“I will do my best by my brother while he is ill. I know you to return as quickly as you can with the ashes. No doubt Logain is displeased that you have gathered your armies and that I have not fallen in line. That won't matter to us much if Eamon does not wake. There is little time left for opposition to strike against him.”

“Is there anything else I can help you with before I retire?”

“Nothing. Sleep well so you may move more swiftly, my Lady.”

The woman bowed and took her leave with Alistair, who was waiting for her at the door. His hand cupped her face and he leaned down for a soft kiss before they disappeared. Teagan turned away to resume his musings. Even so, he wished that Cousland or Alistair would return. Solitude did not suit him – but that's why he was here, wasn't it? Because the Maker had given him strength. Now that the village was safe, it seemed logical to turn to Him for companionship again, especially since there was nobody else to turn to.

Under no circumstances did Teagan consider himself a pious or wholesome man before this ordeal – after all, he was a 40-year-old bachelor and certainly had never been one to take the Maker or Andraste to bed on lonely nights. Throughout his adult life, his friends and family came to accept his bachelorhood, but always treated his “vices” and “indiscretions” like a trained griffin – docile, but potentially very dangerous.

As he feared for his life and the lives of those around him, his greatest regrets and desires bubbled up from deep within him. He regretted that he was not a better protector, that he had not learned to find strength in solitude, that he had no woman alone to whom he belonged and to whom belonged to him. Such regrets stemmed of desires from a more idealistic and youthful stage of his life. As years passed, he became convinced that such desires were meant for a different man. He accepted his place in the world.

It didn't change the slight ache of loneliness when he saw the smithy reunited with his daughter, the celebration husbands shared with their wives, or the solace Alistair and his Lady found together even amidst a Blight. It made his many comforts in life seem – hollow.

The large wooden door behind him creaked open, jolting him out of his thoughts. From behind the door peeked a woman with short red hair and a lantern in her hand. Her mouth formed a small “o” in surprise.

“Pardon me, I did not mean to interrupt,” she said with a airy – almost musical – Orlesian accent. Not at all like the thick, ridiculous accents that were ground like sandpaper against his ears.

“You didn't interrupt anything that didn't need interrupting.”

Even from across the room, he could feel her eyes studying him. “Trying not to dwell on those monstrosities is difficult. Perhaps I sound presumptuous, but sometimes it is easier to remember the things we still have rather than what we have lost when we are not alone. . . .”

Teagan smiled to himself and then scooted over in his pew to make room for the lovely woman. “Truer words have never been spoken.”

With the invitation to join him, she emerged from the behind the door. Even in the dim light, he couldn't help but admire her beauty, the boldness of her hair, the sway of her hips, the swell of her breasts. Her slightly oversized ivory robe seemed to float around her body. Memories reformed in his mind and he envisioned the Lady of the Clouds – her dress billowing forever into the horizon, her arms stretching eagerly toward the sun, her bare feet running across the sky with a love-sick man down below.

_'Raindrops fell from the sky as Louis cursed the heavens,' said Ophelia the Orlesian bard, her dark eyelashes fluttering at him through the crowd royal guests, “Why, even with her expression somber and forfeit, was his Lady was more beautiful than any other he had found on earth? Why would never touch the softness of her face? Why, after just one day, was he more in love with her than he ever thought possible?' _

The redheaded Orleasian floated past him and knelt at the alter, brushing her hands over her face, symbolic of the heat of Andraste's fatal fires. She then took the lit candle in her lantern and passed the flame onto others. Teagan left his seat to join her in her ritual, taking one of the candles and lighting others about the room. After all, it did seem odd to sit by oneself in the darkness.

“You are the woman who travels with the Wardens? I'm sorry, but your name escapes me.”

“Leliana. You are the Arl's brother, yes?”

“Bann Teagan Guerrin.”

“Bann Teagan Guerrin. . . hmmm.” The woman sighed with a pleasure to herself. “Your name is so very lovely – sweet like honey and it rolls easily off the tongue. You know Alistair, yes? He is a dear friend but his name feels dry and knotted in my mouth. If he becomes king, I will like calling him 'your Majesty' or even '_mon Roi_' just to tease.”

Teagan smiled a little at the strangeness of their starting conversation, but flattered nonetheless. “Thank you. I've never had such a compliment before. I must confess that I've always found my name a bit ridiculous -- Teagan Warren Guerrin. My brother is Eamon Cailin Guerrin and my sister was Rowan Meghan Guerrin. I think my mother took the rhyming a tad too far.”

Leliana giggled. “Your mother had good taste. The world is so serious already. I think its wise to have some silliness be an important part of who you are.”

“I suppose I've always thought rhyming and alliteration are for children's stories.”

“Oh no. What about poetry? Speaking the natural highs and lows of sounds and words can be much like composing notes into a rhapsody. There is subtle lightness and mysticism inherit to rhyming that makes it beautiful. I actually met a tree in the Brecilian Forest that spoke in only rhymes.”

“A _tree_, you say?”

“Yes, and it was a beautiful and frightening thing – a skeleton of spindly branches with flowing hair of golden, autumn leaves. I would never have imagined something so wonderful if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes.”

“Did you see many things like this on your travels across Ferelden?”

“Oh yes, but those are stories I must keep to myself. A good minstrel does not tell an unfinished story – especially if she is part of the ending.” Leliana, finished lighting the candles on her side of the room, took a seat nearby where he stood.

“A minstrel? Most of the traveling minstrels I've met do not have skills in fighting darkspawn. Now, bards on the other hand. . . .”

“So you have been entertained by a bard before?” she asked, her voice dripping with curiosity.

“More than one, most likely, since my brother is an Arl and my sister was the Queen. I never knew for sure, but I suspected the storytellers with a more fearsome edge to their tales of adventure and intrigue were playing off personal experiences. The ladies I suspected were bards also had a sweeter fondness for wordplay and wit. I expect they saw the spinning of words as more artful craft than pure skill.”

“If your sister was half as clever as you are, it is no wonder why she was made Queen.” Leliana flashed him a impish smile from behind her hair. “Yet your conclusions are only clever if I am, in fact, a bard, but foolish if I am not, no?”

_'Oh ho! Only a bard could spin words so masterfully.'_

“I suppose my sister was half the fool as well.”

“Perhaps, but greater fools are made kings and queens, or so my stories say.”

“So if minstrel code forbids you to tell of your travels, then what about story within a story? Perhaps the one of how you met the Warden?”

“Oh, that is quite a story, too. I will give you the abridged version, yes?” she said very matter-of-factly. “My life before the Chantry was a tempest of color, excitement, and song. It wasn't long before I was swept away, lost and broken – and very wet! I found sanctuary in the Chantry for a few years where the Maker healed me.”

“I am here now because the Maker showed me of the darkness that threatened to engulf the world whole. The Maker spared two Grey Wardens and gave them the courage to fight both country and Blight. How could I ever believe the Maker has left us when we stand at the cusp of victory despite all the odds against us? I joined Evangeline because I was never meant to stay in the Chantry. I was never meant to sit by and watch my home devoured whole. The Maker gave me the courage to leave and face the world once again.”

A curiosity piqued in his mind. He had found a small refuge in the Chantry because it was the safest place in town. How had she found herself there? It wasn't a question that propriety would allow him to voice – at least, not so bluntly.

“So were you this religious in your tempest life?”

“Not at all, no. The lights of Val Royeaux were wondrously bright. They deceived me into believing all the world was mine. It was the Maker showed me of this fallacy. He showed me that only when the world is its darkest can we see the majesty of His heavens in all their splendor.”

Teagan laughed quietly to himself and stared up at the alter, not trusting himself to break from his own memories. “You know, in the hour before dawn, after all the monsters had been slain and the fires extinguished, I would up at sky and stare in sheer awe of all the millions of stars. They were usually overpowered by lights from the town or from the castle. I couldn't believe that there had been something so wonderful right under my nose. Maker or no, it was small comfort knowing that even when surrounded by death, there is undiscovered wonder too.”

Leliana's fingertips traced his jawline, coaxing his eyes to her instead of his horrible memories. Her eyes were heavy with an emotion he could not place and her hands now rested with his. She leaned, slowly towards him, her lips moist and slightly puckered. Teagan felt his anxious heart race, feeling like an boy again, eager for softness of a woman's kiss.

Her lips did not find his, though, His stomach dropped and a chill ran down his spine from the rush of cold air replacing the sudden spike in heat. The unbeknownst flirt brought her lips the flame of the candle, and slowly blew it out. Her hands gently released the wax from his vice-like grip. Strange, he didn't realize he was holding it so tightly. She never disentangled her hands completely from his and he found himself relaxing from the softness beneath his fingertips and the weightlessness in her eyes.

“Sometimes when I look at the sky now, I think I can see Maker's plan for me drawn into constellations. Do you want to know what I see now?”

“Yes,” he said, his voice strained.

“I see a man haunted by the days past, who needs an escape from the darkness and pain in his mind. I also see an Orlesian bard, whose songs and tales of light and beauty could chase away the darkness in the man – if only for tonight.”

Teagan scrutinizing her words, her voice, her expression, and his suspicions of her dangerous character. Yet, her offer held none of the flirtatious games or lustful innuendo he would expect from a coquette. No, the ingenuous offer held only the compassion and sincerity of a woman who knew of hardships and had words that could ease his.

Never had he shared such openness with a woman. Even with all his paramours over the years, both they and he kept some doors closed. Yet, Leliana wasn't asking to him open all doors. Just not to have any reservations in welcoming guests. Leliana, it seemed, found her comfort in comforting others, in intimacy, in trust.

_'A gentle breeze caressed Louis' skin. In the sky, he found only faceless, voiceless clouds slowly floating westward. As swiftly as she came, the wind had swept his Lady away.'_

With a tired smile, he accepted her offer without any more reservation. With her thumbs stroking the skin of his fingers, she revealed her true nature despite the stigma of a bard. A whole conversation exchanged between their eyes, saying things that rhyming, sounds, and words would only cheapen.

“I'll start with a story of hope and love, yes?”


End file.
